In the Shadows
by Reber02
Summary: Pre-LOTR Still trapped behind enemy lines, Aragorn and Boromir encounter another one fo Sauron's servants.
1. In the Shadows

In the Shadows

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No infringement is meant.

Rating PG-13, for violence.

Warnings: Violence, angst. Oh, and not beta-ed. This is the raw version.

By Annabell

Summary: Pre-LOTR. Aragorn is scouting near Mordor when he comes across some soldiers from Gondor, who have lost their companion.  Aragorn volunteers to find him, unaware that it is the Steward's eldest son who is missing.

Author's note. According to Tolkien, Aragorn was born in the year 2931. Boromir was born in the year 2978, forty-seven years later. In fact, Boromir is one of the youngest of the Fellowship, with only Sam, Merry and Pippin being younger. In Appendix A of Return of the King, Tolkien mentions that while he was young, Aragorn spends some time in Mordor, scouting.  In the movie, Boromir indicates that he too has spent time in Mordor, (see the council of Elrond scene). Using a blend of book and movie-verse, this fic is a what-if take on the first meeting of the future King of Gondor, and the Steward's son. 

Additional note. In this fic, Aragorn is 62, which is not old for him, and Boromir is 15.  And though I love the books dearly, I think Sean Bean's portrayal of Boromir was magnificent. So I am basing Boromir in this fic on that, rather than the character in the book, who was a bit of a jerk.  And as I am reading ROTK right now, Tolkien's style of writing is influencing this fic heavily. I know I am nowhere near his level of writing, but if I keep practicing, maybe someday…*grin* 

Part 1

He heard them before he saw them. It was low mutterings of some beings quietly disagreeing with each other. He had been tracking one unusually large company of orcs that were starting to populate the outskirts of Mordor, when he had come across a new set of tracks that were definitely not orcs. Instead, they were Men. Not quite close enough to make out which language they were speaking, the Ranger cocked his head to one side. The voices were not the harsh, guttural language of Mordor. Both curious and cautious, Aragorn glided on silent feet through the evergreens of North Ithilien, the forested land that separated eastern bank of the great river Anduin from that black ruined land of Mordor. Not far to the east, the Ephel Duath, or Mountains of Shadow as they were known in the common tongue, loomed menacingly in the afternoon sunlight, cold in the autumn air. 

Drawing closer, Aragorn could discern the words and accents now, and was somewhat surprised when he realized that the men were from Gondor. He stopped to consider this. Gondor was the country he was to inherit. Being a descendant of Isildur, it was his destiny, and not one he looked forward to. But that was far into the future, and it was not yet his time to claim his throne. Instead, he wandered the Wild, learning the ways of lands and the Rangers. If he had to claim a home, for now it would have been Rivendell, or Imladris, as its inhabitants, the elves, knew it. But at this moment, Rivendell was far away, and he would not be seeing it for many long days.

And speaking of being far from home, why were the soldiers of the White City here on the very slopes of Mordor?  There were three of them; all dressed alike in plain gray garb with no decoration or symbols of their office. Obviously they were some sort of scouts or spies, keeping their eyes on Mordor. A slight smile curved his lips, for it pleased him that Gondor's sons should show such bravery, so near the Enemy's borders. He crept closer, silent as only a Ranger can, and listened to their hushed conversation.

"We must go back, " one of them insisted, voice pitched low against enemy passerby. "It will be nightfall soon."

"We cannot just leave without him," another one countered, equally soft and just as intensely. "We must wait." 

Then yet another opinion was heard. "Nay, we must search for him! What if he is injured?"

The first speaker cut off their arguments. "There are several companies of orcs nearby, and nightfall will all too soon be at hand. If we are caught here, there will be no help for him or ourselves. We must trust that he will be able to join us at Henneth Annun." 

Privately, Aragorn agreed with the first man. It would be extremely dangerous for them to stay there, and their presence increased the danger of discovery to himself as well. But it was sullen silence that greeted this order, and Aragorn felt his interest piqued. Whomever they were missing, he must be exceptional to command such great loyalty in these courageous Men.

Something must have alerted them to his presence, for as one they spun in his direction, hands going to their blades. With seeming unconcern, Aragorn walked toward them, holding his hands out to the sides to show he was not a threat to them. They studied him with wary suspicion, yet did not draw their weapons. 

After a few moments, the first man spoke. "Who are you that listens uninvited to our conversation?" he demanded, yet kept his voice soft for all its harshness. "Speak quickly!"

"I mean you no harm," Aragorn said easily, hands still out at his sides. "It is unusual to find such valiant men as yourselves here, so close to Mordor." He hoped to calm them enough that they might heed his words. 

They exchanged glances amongst themselves yet did not relax their guard. The first man, obviously the leader, spoke again. "From you speech, you are not from these lands."

Nodding, Aragorn said, "I am a Ranger from the north, from Eriador," and did not elaborate further. The men settled in spite of themselves, and though they did not know that they were in the presence of their future King, something about him eased their troubled spirits.

"You are far from home, Ranger," the second man said, the hostility in his manner fading with a slight smile of welcome.

"As are you, good sons of Gondor," Aragorn replied formally. "What troubles you that you would linger here in the very shadow of the Enemy and tempt discovery?" He was acutely aware that there were no birds singing, and no hint of insects either. The whole forest seemed watchful, filled with menace.

Again, they exchanged a look, speaking with their eyes. Aragorn waited patiently, and was rewarded when they nodded and turned to him once more. Crouching down, they beckoned him to join their huddle, so that they may talk without risking the prying eyes of the enemy, which was near.

Aragorn joined them, falling into a hunter's crouch with ease. The leader of the scouts looked at him intently, and Aragorn could see the worry in the face of the man of Gondor.  "We are scouts from Gondor, as you probably can tell. For three days we have been scouting the enemy to verify certain rumors of increased orc activity here on the outskirts of Mordor. This morning, we divided ourselves to gather more information, agreeing to meet here at the appointed hour. That was almost two hours past. He decided to scout nearer to the mountains and now I fear that he has been discovered and captured or killed.  For never before has he been delayed for such a span of time. Now even though every minute spent here increases our chance of discovery by the enemy, we do not wish to leave this area until we discover what befell our companion."  The other two agreed quietly.

Studying them, Aragorn felt he must decide. He was used to wandering the Wild alone, and these men were his countrymen, someday to be his subjects. The instinct to protect his people welled up inside of him, and he made his choice.  "Go back to where you came from and wait for me there. I will find your friend."

The men sat back on their heels and regarded him with surprise. This stranger was volunteering to find their companion, putting himself at risk to spare them. "But you yourself would face the enemy alone, for the sake of one whom you do not know?" they asked.  "We would not ask this of you, valiant stranger."

Smiling slightly, Aragorn reassured them.  "I am much more at home in the forests, and know the ways of the Rangers. The enemy will not find me. And alone I will stand a better chance of finding your companion."

Again, the trio of men looked at each other, then reluctantly agreed with Aragorn. As they stood up and prepared to part, the leader grasped Aragorn by the forearm and looked into his eyes with deadly earnest. "You must find him," he said with great intensity.

Aragorn nodded with grave understanding. "I will," he said simply.

He watched with approval as the three melted into the thick forest with nary a sound. Only the soft brush leaves betrayed their passage.  After they had gone, he once again resumed his scouting, this time trying to find the track of the missing man. His eyes scanned leaf, ground and rock, alert for any indication the enemy was close. He carefully made his way toward the mountains, towering high above, ringed with thickening black clouds. Rocky outcroppings of granite covered in moss jutted up through the trees, as if the bones of the land that have rotted their way to the surface. The air smelled foul, a teasing smell, fetid, almost like charnel pits. Aragorn knew that scent well. It was the scent of Mordor itself.

It was nearing late afternoon when he came upon a small clearing and found the first signs of the missing companion. Several hacked up orc bodies were lying scattered about, their black blood smelling of foulness and decay. Thick heavy-bodied flies droned over the corpses. Standing very still, Aragorn listened for any sign some living orcs remaining nearby, but there was none. The orcs had left, leaving their fallen companions to bloat in the sun. With infinite care, he studied the scene, noting the deep stab wounds in the orcs' remains and the preciseness of the wielder of the sword.  The man knew how to handle his blade, Aragorn noted.  Studying the tracks, he noticed that the man's tracks were lighter than his companions. He must be smaller than the others, Aragorn concluded.

Then the sun glinting off bright metal drew his eyes to the far end of the clearing. Soundlessly, he made his way over and frowned with some concern. A sword, beautifully wrought despite the thick black blood that covered the blade was laying abandoned, and more blood, this time deep red, was spattered nearby. Aragorn's face grew even grimmer. It was obvious that the man had been wounded, and the presence of his sword unattended meant that he had been most certainly captured. There was no body and not enough blood to think that the orcs had simply killed the man. Instead they had taken him alive, and would abuse him for much sport. He picked up the sword, noting its balance and heft. With practiced ease he wiped the acrid orc blood on a bit of cloth and stuck it in his belt. With luck, he would return the sword to its owner. Or, if luck were against him, he would return it to the companions who were waiting.

He followed the trail made by the orcs that had escaped the wrath of the man's blade. It was easy, as they made no attempt to hide their tracks, and he made good time. Too soon he was deep in the shadow of the mountains, and he heard the raucous laughter of orcs. Lips thinned, he crept closer to the place from which the laughter emanated. Seeing yet another moss covered granite outcropping, he studied it for any signs of a guard, but in typical orc arrogance there was none, for they dwelt in the shadow of their Dark Lord, and feared naught. 

Using the rocks as a place of concealment, Aragorn carefully raised his head and studied the scene in front of him. No less than fifty orcs were camped in a large clearing. Thick greasy smoke rose from the campfires that dotted the bare ground as foul smells reached Aragorn.  He didn't know what the orcs were preparing for their meal and dismissed the thought was a grimace of disgust.  The orcs were milling about, jeering at each other, occasionally engaging in fights, and jabbering at each other in their black speech. The scene was one of seething chaos.

Aragorn scanned the camp for the prisoner, and finally saw him off to one side. The sight made his eyes go wide, for it wasn't a man at all. It was a boy on the very cusp of manhood. He had been stripped of everything, save his leggings and boots. Dark bruises and deep scratches marred his bare chest. Blood matted the golden hair, yet despite that, it still gleamed as if in sunlight. The boy was sitting with his back to a tree, arms drawn behind him and bound to the tree with rope, his chin on his breast, as if in sleep.

As Aragorn watched, one of the orcs headed to the captive and kicked him hard in the side. "Wake up, soldier-boy!" it grunted in Common.

The boy made no sound even as his body jerked from the force of the blow. The orc grabbed a handful of fair hair and pulled, drawing the boy's face into his sight. Aragorn's heart was gladdened to see no fear in the boy's face, only proud defiance at his captors. The orc abruptly shoved a flask in the boy's face, forcing some foul liquor down his throat and laughing cruelly as the boy choked violently.  

To Aragorn's dismay, the antics of the orc were drawing attention from the others, and soon the boy was surrounded by jeering orcs, some spitting on him, others kicking him, trying to make him cry out, but the boy stubbornly refused, mutely taking the beatings with unflinching stoicism. After too long, the orcs grew tired of their games and wandered away, leaving the boy alone. Fresh blood oozed down his sides and chin, but even from across the clearing, he could see the boy's eyes were still proud and defiant. 

Aragorn found himself admiring the youth's spirit.  He glanced up at the sun, which was dipping near the horizon. He found it troubling that orcs were about in the daylight, although not direct sunlight. The power of Mordor must be growing, he mused. He knew he would have to act swiftly. Mostly nocturnal, they stayed deep in the shadows of the mountains and the thick forests until sunset. When the sun went down, the orcs would almost certainly be on the move, taking their captive to torment and death beneath the horrifying towers if Minas Morgul. 

The orcs, bored of tormenting the unresponsive captive, had let the boy alone. Aragorn considered his chances. Since the boy was held near the perimeter of the camp, he might be able to creep down and untie him. There were several flaws in that plan that he could see right off the bat. The boy might fall into unconsciousness before long, or be too weak and injured to move once he was untied. Or worse, the boy not knowing he was being rescued might inadvertently give Aragorn away to the enemy. He glanced at the sun again, lips thinning at her unseemly swift descent towards twilight. He decided that he had to take the chance. The thought of the boy screaming his heart and sanity away under the Dark Lord's terrible presence was too much to bear.

So quietly that even an Elf might not have heard him, he made his way to the edge of the camp. The orcs were still fighting and laughing. Aragorn's nose wrinkled at the appalling stench rising from the camp, but he continued on, each sense keyed to its utmost. Finally, he was crouching directly behind the boy's tree. He breathed a single sigh of relief. The boy's hands were moving, clutching and tearing at the ropes that bound him. Aragorn could see his wrists were wet with blood from the chaffing, but more importantly, he conscious. Taking a knife from his boot, he slipped the blade between the tree and the ropes, hesitating a single moment, before grasping the ropes and slicing the knotted bindings. Then he froze, holding the ropes still. Now came the hard part. If the boy jumped or spoke, they would be discovered. 

"Can you move?" he asked, barely more that a whisper. 

To his credit, the boy didn't move. For a long second he was utterly still, he then nodded his head just enough to indicate that he could. Aragorn's estimation of the boy went up yet another notch. For although he was injured and facing unimaginable terrors, he had kept his wits and his courage.  Quietly, the Ranger slipped off his cloak. He studied the camp, looking intently for any orcs that might be gazing their way. As luck would have it, at that moment a vicious brawl broke out between several of the larger orcs. Immediately the others came over, either to root them on or try to break it up. Either way, amidst the commotion, Aragorn reached around the tree and grasping the boy by one of his shoulders, dragged him back until the tree too concealed the boy. 

Not pausing to talk, he draped his cloak around the boy, knowing it would provide camouflage, covering the boy's pale skin that would stand out to the night vision of the orcs. Looking down, found himself staring into dark green eyes that despite his pain, was filled with grim determination and fierce pride.  He smiled slightly in reassurance. "Can you walk?" he asked gently.

The boy hesitated, as if considering, then nodded once. 

Squeezing his shoulder, Aragorn said, "Come," and he led them back away from the camp, the din growing less each passing moment.  The boy followed soundlessly, clutching the cloak around himself.   He did not ask any questions, understanding the urgency of the situation. Instead, he concentrated on keeping up with the swift Ranger who had, at the moment when he had almost given up hope, rescued him.

Aragorn thought furiously. In a few moments, the orcs would discover their prisoner gone, and immediately be on the hunt. With night coming on swift wings, he knew there was little chance the injured boy was able to outrun their pursuers. He needed a place for them to hide and wait for the dawn. He paused, glancing back at the boy who, despite his haggard appearance, spoke no word of complaint, indeed no word at all.  

The Ranger scanned the area desperately looking for some sort of hiding place. His gaze was drawn up the side of the nearby mountain. A sheer granite cliff made up the closest face. Or so it seemed. Aragorn's sharp blue eyes narrowed as he saw an indentation part way up the cliffside. If they could make it up there, without being seen, they might stand a chance. Decision made, he headed to the mountain. He had only taken a few steps when a firm hand grasped his arm. He turned and saw the uncertain wariness in the boy's eyes.  Freeing himself, he knew what the boy was thinking. The boy asked anyway.

"Why are you taking us closer to Mordor?" the boy demanded softly.

"Fear not," he said. "There is a place we can hide until dawn. The enemy will think you have run away from Mordor, not closer to it, therefore he will seek for you the wrong direction."

The boy thought it over quickly, and then nodded once again. Aragorn could tell by the accent and the mannerisms that is was a young lord. No wonder the soldiers were reluctant to leave him behind. Perhaps a relative of Prince Imrahil.  There was no time to wonder now, though. They needed to get to ground as fast as possible. 

Leading the young lord to the cliffs, he was alert for any sign that the orcs had found them, but there were no outcries of discovery, and they made it to the base of the cliff without being spotted by the enemy.  At the cliff, though there was a problem.  It was much steeper than Aragorn had first surmised, and he feared that the injured boy would not be able to climb.

The boy may have been thinking the same thing, but his face did not betray it. Instead, he asked, "Where is this shelter you have found?" His voice shook just the slightest bit, and Aragorn could see him trembling, though with cold or with weakness he could not tell. The sun was just touching the horizon. They had precious little time until the orcs would swarm the forests, looking for their escaped prisoner.

"It is partway up the cliffside," he admitted, now not as sure as he was about the merit of his idea.

To his credit, the boy only looked at him and blinked once. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn found some handholds and started scaling the granite face. There were enough cracks and gouges to scale the wall, with only some difficulty. He could hear the boy climbing behind him. Soon, he reached the ledge and crawled up on it, pausing to take a look around. 

It was a natural indentation, not even a cave, barely big enough to fit the both of them if they pressed together. It would serve to conceal them from prying eyes below and deflect the wind slightly, but neither of them would be completely free of the stiff breeze that tugged at his clothes.

A muffled gasp drew his attention and he quickly reached down to help his companion upon the ledge.  The boy was very pale now, and shaking harder. But his eyes were still proud and determined. Aragorn pulled him as far to the back of the indentation as possible and they still had to curl their legs up to prevent anyone from seeing them from below.

Shoulder to shoulder they sat, gazing out over the forest, as black clouds rode high overhead. The last vestiges of the sunset were glowing dully on the horizon. Off in the distance, Aragorn thought he could hear a roar of rage come from the orc camp. He felt the boy shudder and glanced over at his companion. The boy's head was leaning back against the granite wall, and a thick thatch of golden hair fell over his eyes, which were closed. The blood on his face was black in the dusk. 

Aragorn thought he was asleep, until the boy spoke, his voice hushed. "What are you called Ranger, that I may thank you far rescuing me from death at the hand of the Dark Lord?"

Pausing a few seconds, Aragorn spoke. "I am called Strider."

The boy nodded once, seemingly on the verge on sleep, when he murmured. "Thank you Strider. I owe you my life."

"And what are you called?" Aragorn asked, not because he was curious, but because it seemed polite. 

The boy sighed and pulled the cloak closer around him, his breath a visible cloud in the cold air. "I am called Boromir."

TBC


	2. Behind Enemy Lines

In the Shadows

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No infringement is meant.

Rating PG-13, for violence.

Warnings: Violence, angst. Oh, and not beta-ed. This is the raw version.

By Annabell

Author's note. According to Tolkien, Aragorn was born in the year 2931. Boromir was born in the year 2978, forty-seven years later. In this fic, Aragorn is 62, which is not old for him, and Boromir is 15.  In Appendix A of Return of the King, Tolkien mentions that while he was young, Aragorn spends some time in Mordor, scouting.  In the movie, Boromir indicates that he too has spent time in Mordor, (see the Council of Elrond scene). Using a blend of book and movie-verse, this fic is a what-if take on the first meeting of the future King of Gondor, and the Steward's son. 

I think Sean Bean's portrayal of Boromir was magnificent. So I am basing Boromir in this fic on that, rather than the character in the book. And I do agree with Osheen and Shivvy, Aragorn and Faramir are put way too high on a pedestal.  

Part 2

Behind Enemy Lines

The night dragged by as if on the backs of snails. For endless hours the two of them sat in silence, listening for a sign that the enemy had discovered their pitiful hiding place. But though they could hear the shouts of the orcs far in the distance, none came near their cliff.  Aragorn scanned the night constantly, trying not to feel the cold. Beside him, the boy Boromir was huddled in Aragorn's cloak with his eyes closed. Aragorn might have thought him asleep except for the fact that every once in a while the boy's eyes would flare open and scan about him. Inwardly, he was impressed with the boy's patience and tolerance of his injuries, for Aragorn knew with certainty that they must be troubling him.  

Finally, though, it seemed the boy's patience wore thin.

"Would that this night would end," Boromir muttered, trying in vain to find a comfortable position on the ledge. As it was, there was just enough room, barely, for him and the Ranger to sit shoulder to shoulder, and that was all. He was aware of the Ranger beside him, giving him an amused glance and he flushed. Boromir knew that it was unseemly for a soldier to complain, let alone a lord's son, but at that time Boromir didn't care. He was hurt, cold and very thirsty. "Perhaps the Enemy has contrived a way to make a night that does not fail," he speculated, trying to distract himself from his aches and pains.

"This night is no shorter or longer than any other," Aragorn assured him, his soft voice conveying his amusement. 

Glaring at the Ranger, Boromir struggled to envelope himself further into the borrowed cloak; his arms and legs were so cold that he could scarcely move. He hissed softly as pain stabbed his injured ribs and in his annoyance at his inability to get comfortable, he jerked the material harder than necessary.  He froze when Strider put a hand on his shoulder and held him in a firm grasp

"Don't move," Strider said in a hushed tone that nonetheless commanded such that it only added to Boromir's irritation. The man was just a ranger, even if he had saved Boromir's life. He was drawing a breath to retort when he heard a sound directly below them. 

Leaning forward, Aragorn and Boromir stared intently at the base of the cliff from where they had climbed. At first, Boromir could see nothing in the darkness, yet he could sense _something_ down there. As his eyes began to adjust, he thought he could detect a patch of black that seemed to be…moving.

"What is it?" Boromir whispered. He noticed that his heart was pounding so loudly he was sure that the thing down there must have heard it. He was shivering, but not due to the cold alone and there didn't seem to be enough air in his lungs. There was something fundamentally wrong about whatever it was down there, and though Boromir was not prone to flights of fancy, somehow he knew that it was much, much more perilous than a hundred companies of orcs.

Aragorn didn't answer, but his hand reached around slowly for his sword and grasped the hilt.  He didn't draw it, but he was poised, ready to attack in an instant.  

The black _thing_ worked its way along the base of the cliff, inch by inch. Boromir could feel his muscles tensing so hard that he knew if something didn't happen soon, he was sure he would explode. Then something did happen. The black thing _sniffed_ loudly once, twice, and then just seemed to fade into nothingness.   Boromir swallowed heavily, and was suddenly able to breathe again.  "What was that?" he asked again, only slightly ashamed of the quavering in his voice.

The Ranger did not reply. He scanned the area around them and (most disturbingly) overhead. The only things up there were the boiling black clouds. Finally he relaxed, though made no effort to remove his hand from his weapon. Boromir waited impatiently for an answer. When there seemed to be one not immediately forthcoming, he repeated it again and again was ignored. 

Thoroughly irritated, the young soldier was contemplating shoving his companion off the ledge to see if the thing would come back when the Ranger sighed and leaned back. Closing his eyes, Aragorn "I cannot be sure," he said, "but I think it was a Nazgul."

Boromir looked at him blankly in the dark. "A what?"

"A Nazgul. One of Sauron's servants."

Biting his lip, Boromir's thoughts spun furiously. Never before had he encountered such a foe, one that could reduce a man almost to weeping with its mere presence.  Part of him quailed at the thought that the Enemy had such servants. How could Gondor hope to stand against foes such as those? Shaking his head, he berated himself for thinking like that; thoughts such as those were no way to wage a war. "There must be some way to kill such a fell beast," he mused.

"Its not a beast, and if there is a way, not even the Elves know of it," Aragorn said dryly.

Boromir snorted. "Elves, what good are they?" he asked bitterly, settling back into the alcove.

Raising an eyebrow, Aragorn looked at his companion. "They are of great good, and wisdom and power. Tell me, young Boromir, have the Elves offended you in some way that you would speak of them in such a manner?"

Eyes blazing, Boromir snarled. "You speak to me of how good the Elves are, yet it is the people of Gondor who are sacrificed so that the other races of Middle Earth remain free of Sauron's evil. Every day more and more of my people fall to the foul swords of Mordor's armies. Though we repay their actions tenfold, the armies of Mordor grows ever stronger. If the Elves are so good and powerful, why are they not here at Gondor's side, aiding her in her struggle? Instead, they hide in their woods, caring nothing of others, in safety bought by the blood of Gondor. Tell me not of the goodness of Elves." Boromir looked away, desperately trying to get himself back under control. His exhaustion and injuries were taking their relentless toll on him. 

Aragorn was speechless at the bitterness of the youth. He knew that Boromir was overwrought, yet what he said echoed deep within his heart, for it was Aragorn's own people that Boromir was speaking of, yet this boy seemed to care about Gondor as if he himself were its king. He tried a different tack. "For countless ages, it has been Gondor's fate to contend with Mordor," he said.

"Aye, and we do it without complaint, and yet…" the boy trailed off, biting his lip.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked gently.

"I fear for my people," Boromir admitted with reluctance. "We are engaged in a war that I cannot see a way of winning."

Aragorn didn't answer. For long moments he considered the boy's words, and what they meant. The boy spoke as if Gondor's defeat were imminent. He considered the situation from the boy's point of view and understood, but there was little he could offer in the way of comfort except for the pitiful words, "Do not give up hope."

With a laugh that sounded closer to a sob, Boromir shook his head. "Hope? To where shall we look for hope? The other races will not fight at our side and there is no king to lead us. And I have heard telling that Gondor's only ally Rohan is coming under siege as well. It seems we are beset from all sides so that I cannot see any hope," he finished softly.

"Then why do you fight?" Aragorn asked curiously.

"What else is there to do?" Boromir asked in return, genuinely shocked. "Should we just lay down our swords and let Sauron slaughter us?  Nay, we are Men of Gondor. We still have our honor and courage, despite that which we face.  If it is death at the hands of Sauron, then we will face it knowing we did our duty.  As you said, it has ever been Gondor's fate to contend with Mordor. So we shall, with or without hope."  He looked up at the black clouds, frowning. Then another thought occurred to him.  "How is it that you know so much about that creature?" Boromir asked curiously, and then the beginnings of a suspicion were insinuating itself into his exhausted mind. He drew away from the Ranger, as much as he was able, which was not much.

As if reading his thoughts, Aragorn smirked at him. "If I were a servant of Sauron, I would have left you to the mercies of the orcs." 

Flushing, Boromir nodded. "True. Yet you know much about them," he pointed out.

"I have dedicated my life to aiding in the defeat of Sauron," Aragorn said simply. 

Boromir smiled. "Then we are brother with a common purpose. Have you ventured inside of Mordor, Strider?" he asked with some hesitation.

"Aye," Aragorn admitted reluctantly.

"Is it true?" Boromir asked, his voice failing just the slightest bit. "Is it true that the tower Barad-dur is being rebuilt?"

Aragorn winced as if in pain, but he could not lie to the youth. "Aye, it is true."

"Then our situation is as bad as it can get," Boromir said matter-of-factly as he let his head fall back on the rock wall, closing his eyes.

"Nay," Aragorn chuckled in spite of himself. "It can always get worse."

"How?" Boromir asked, not opening his eyes.

"It could be raining," the Ranger suggested.

As if on cue, the skies opened up above them. Icy sheets of acrid rain poured over them and through a soaked thatch of golden hair Boromir glared at Aragorn, who actually looked startled that the weather had so readily taken him up on his suggestion. "Never again try to comfort me," he growled.

TBC

End note: This is one of the hardest fics that I have tried to write, for the simple reason it will not tell me where it wants to go, yet it will not leave me alone. And I have no idea how to put those little accent peak-thingies over the u in Nazgul and Barad-dur. So…yeah.  Comments are very welcome. It may give me ideas.  Thank you for reading this.    


End file.
